April Showers
by tarnished glitter
Summary: Pre-Rent. April and Roger meet in a bar. A little different perspective on how Roger turned to drugs, and about the April/Roger relationship. Please read and review! **CHAPTER 9 ADDED** New chapter added 8/9
1. An Empty Bed

A/N:  The characters don't belong to me, of course. They're Jonathan Larson's. Please read and tell me what you think so far. Comments, criticism, anything's appreciated. :) 

As I sit in the cold bar and sip my beer, I look around the almost empty room and spot a tall, blonde man in the secluded corner, by himself. I've been seeing him a lot lately. Mostly because I always hang out here and this seems to be his permanent home.

            He looks over at me and I turn around quickly and cover my face with my long, dark hair, hoping he didn't notice my stare.

            I'm not great with men. Well, actually I _am_ great with men. And that's the problem. I haven't had a real boyfriend in…oh, about two years now. They all just end up as one-night stands, which is great if you're not looking for a real relationship.

But I am. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's the kind of guys I pick up. But for whatever reason, the next morning I always wake up in an empty bed in an empty apartment.

            I look up again and notice that the man is walking…well, more like stumbling over to me. I sigh and flip my hair behind my back and away from my face, turning on the charm.

            "Hey," he slurs and I give him a seductive smile. "Can I buy you a drink?"

            I motion to the beer already in front of me. "No thanks." I smile again and purse my lips just a bit.

            "I'm Roger." He returns the smile.

"April."

            He's obviously drunk…and stoned. But, he seems sweet. Cute too. So I flirt back, and soon I find myself walking the four blocks back to his place.

            I look around the tiny apartment and see a woman asleep on a ratty sofa, and two men, one asleep on the floor on an inflatable mattress, and the other on a tiny cot that looks like it's about to fall apart any second.

            Roger motions to the brunette on the couch. "That's Maureen," he whispers. "She and Mark must have had another fight."

I nod. "Who's Mark?" I ask, looking at the two men sleeping on the mattress and cot.

            He points to a small room in the corner with the door closed. "My roommate."

            I nod again, unable to understand how so many people can live together in such a tiny, tiny space.

            I grew up as an only child in one of the richer areas of New York. My father was wealthy, he always gave me and my mother whatever material possessions we wanted. Though unfortunately, it was only material things. 

            Looking around at the small room again, I take in the cozy atmosphere and think to myself that this is better than anything I ever had when I was growing up. I smile to myself. I don't think I'll be waking up in an empty apartment tomorrow.

            Roger grabs hold of my hand and leads me towards a small room next to the one he pointed out earlier.

            As I close the door behind us, he goes over to the bed, which looks no bigger than the cot in the living room, and pushes off various papers, empty beer cans, water bottles, and…needles?

            I look at him questioningly but before I have the chance to say anything my lips are smothered by his own and I'm being pushed down on the now empty bed. I don't protest, though. I'm more than a little used to this by now. So I give in fully and give myself up to him, expecting a full night of pleasure and then the familiar feeling of emptiness in the morning when I wake up and find him nowhere in sight. Well, at least the sex will be good.

            And then tomorrow I'll go back to the bar, pick up some other random guy and repeat the process over and over, with the same hopes that someday I might not wake up to an empty bed.

A/N:  Sorry it's so short. But it's a start.


	2. More Than Just a One Night Stand

            The next morning I roll over in the tiny bed and am not surprised to find myself alone in the small, messy room. I sigh and pick the clothes I was wearing last night off the floor and put them back on. I look in the slightly cracked and dusty mirror once and fix my hair, making sure I look at least halfway decent, and then quietly open the door to his room and walk out into the crowded living room again.

            Only, this morning it isn't nearly as crowded as it was the night before. The woman who was on the couch last night isn't there anymore, and the door to the room next to Roger's is open and empty. The man who was sleeping on the cot isn't there either. The only one who remains is the man on the mattress, who's still sleeping soundly, despite the fact that it is almost 12:00.

            I'm about to head out the door to the apartment when I hear some noises coming from the bathroom. The unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. I pause and take my hand off of the doorknob, turning instead and knocking on the bathroom door, calling out softly to the person inside.

            "Um…are you okay?"

            More gagging noises. After a few minutes, I hear the toilet flush and Roger comes out, looking sick and disheveled.

            I'm a little surprised to find him still here, I thought for sure he'd be long gone by now and I'd never see him again in my life.

            "Roger?" I ask hesitantly.

            He lets out a deep breath and looks at me for a second before responding. "April, right?"

I nod. "Are you okay?"

            He nods slowly, as if even the slightest movement hurts him. "Yeah. I guess I had a bit too much to drink last night."

At that moment a short blonde man with dark glasses walks in the front door, his arm around the woman I saw last night.

            "Or every night," he says sarcastically in response to Roger.

            "Um…" I just stand there, not knowing what to do or say. Do I just leave? Do I stay and make sure Roger's okay? I've never found myself in this position before, which is sad, really, when you think about it.

            Roger turns to face me again, ignoring his friend. "Do you want something to eat? Drink? I could really go for some coffee right now…"

"Oh, uh…sure." I say and smile, still not sure what all this means. Could this man possibly be more than what I had thought? Is there any chance at all that he could be different than the rest, more than just a one-night stand?

            The man and woman are still in the doorway, looking at me.

            "Hi," I say and walk over to them. "I'm April."

            The blonde smiles. "I'm Mark, and this is Maureen," he says, motioning to the brunette attached to his side.

            Maureen gives me a bright smile and a "Hello" while Mark goes over to Roger and pulls him to the side, whispering something that I can't quite hear.

            Maureen leads me over to the kitchen and sits down next to me, while fixing herself a cup of coffee and a bagel.

            "So, did he bother telling you his name?" she asks in between bites of her bagel, and motions to Roger.

"Oh, um, yeah. Roger, right?"

"Yeah." She smiles. "Sorry. He can be a little…um…rude sometimes."

            "Or totally wasted," Mark chimes in as he leans on the counter, fixing his own breakfast. "I'm surprised he even remembers his own name sometimes," he says, shooting a look at the closed bathroom door, where gagging noises can again be heard from inside.

            Maureen glares at Mark and smacks him. "Shut up, Mark."

            He's about to respond when the front door suddenly opens and the man that I saw sleeping on the cot last night walks in with tears in his eyes that he's obviously trying to hide.

            "Oh God," Maureen whispers and walks over to him. "Is it…?" Her voice trails off.

            He just nods and Mark hurries over to him too, both of them embracing him in a hug. I get the feeling that I'm not exactly wanted right now so I slip out the front door, none of them noticing me as they hug their friend and try to sooth his tears.

            I walk down the street at a quick place, back to my own apartment on the East Side. The whole way there I can't stop thinking about Roger and his friends. That was…different. I've never had an experience like that before. Usually I'm with some rich, stuck up snob for one night and then the next morning I wake up in his fancy apartment, all alone, and I never hear from the guy again.

            Roger's apartment was tiny, messy, and crowded. And although it lacked in the beauty and luxury of most of the guys' I sleep with, this was so much better. I wouldn't mind going back there again, seeing Roger again, but I know I can't. Well, at least not now anyway. There's obviously something going on with their friend, and I know I wouldn't exactly be appreciated over there right now. 

But…maybe I'll just go back to that bar tonight and see if Roger comes back. I actually know that he will. He's been there every night that I've been so far. I don't know if he's scouting out girls, meeting friends, or just getting drunk off his ass. But every night, without fail, he shows up and always stands in that same corner. Sometimes I see him talking to some man who's always wearing this huge overcoat, despite the weather or temperature. But most of the time he's alone.

            I finally make it back to my own apartment and once I'm there I lie down in my bed, deciding to take a quick nap to make up for some of the sleep I lost last night while I was with Roger.

            After about five hours of sleeping I wake up to the blaring of the alarm clock next to me. That's weird…why would I set the alarm clock? I reach over to shut it off and that's when I notice the time. 6:00. That's when it clicks. I'm going to go back to that bar tonight and see if Roger shows up.

            I get out of bed sleepily, and begin to look through my closet for something to wear, berating myself at the same time for caring so much about a guy and what he thinks of me. I try to convince myself that the only reason I care in the least is because the sex was good. Admitting that I actually like a guy for more than the sex would be allowing myself to get hurt. To get my heart broken again. And that simply isn't an option.

            I finally settle on a pair of black vinyl pants and red halter top. I get dressed, curl my hair, and take a cab to the bar where I sit for a while, order a few drinks, and wait for Roger to show up.

            I finally see him walk through the door and I quickly turn around, trying to make it look like I wasn't waiting for him. I pretend not to notice him, and he does the same to me. Or he really _doesn't_ notice me.

            He walks over to his usual corner and anxiously checks his watch every few minutes, like he's waiting for someone. My heart sinks. What if he already has a girlfriend? What if it really _was_ just a one-night stand?

            I sigh and take another swig from my beer and when I look back to him I see him chatting with that guy in the overcoat. My hopes lift just a little when I see this. Maybe he was just meeting a friend? Maybe it wasn't a girlfriend at all, just a friend that was running a bit late.

            I'm about to approach him but just as I do, I see him slip into the bathroom, only to appear a few minutes later looking a bit dazed.

            He looks over in my direction with a blank look on his face but after a few seconds, something resembling recognition takes over the blank look and he walks over to me.

            "April, right?"

            I nod and smile.

            "Hey, look, I'm sorry about the other night. I, uh… my friend was just diagnosed with HIV so things were kind of crazy."

            "Oh… That's okay. I'm sorry to hear that. How's he doing?"

He shrugs. "Not great. But, you know, he just found out he has AIDS so what can you expect?"

            I nod understandingly.

            He rubs the back of his next and looks down. When he looks back up at me I take note that his eyes are dull and lifeless…emotionless in contrast to the rest of his face.

            "So…" He looks around at the bar in front of me. "I see you don't already have a drink tonight."

            I smile. "No, I don't."

            "Mind if I buy you one?"

"Go ahead."

I smile again, a real smile, as opposed to the seductive one I usually flash to guys like him. I glance at him as he orders two beers, flashing me that wonderful smile again, before handing one of them to me. On second thought, maybe they're not so much like him after all.

            After we finish our drinks we walk out of the bar and out onto the street.

            "Hey, do you want to come back to my place?" he asks, grabbing hold of my hand.

            "Oh…I don't know…what about your friend?"

            He looks down for a second. "Oh. Yeah, maybe you're right. A club then? The Life Café? C'mon, we can't go home…it's not even tomorrow yet!" He grins and I smile back.

            "A club sounds good."

            He grins again and we start walking down the street towards a local club.

            Once inside we're instantly greeted by the manager, who seems to recognize Roger the second he's through the door.

            "Davis! Hey, how ya been?"

"Pretty good." He smiles that wonderful smile I'm growing more and more fond of each time he flashes it.

            "I haven't seen you around lately. You're still playing, right?"

Roger nods. "Yeah. Got nothing to play though." He smiles sadly.

            "Oh, that's too bad. You guys have real talent though, if you're ever looking for a gig, you know where to come."

            "Yeah, thanks."

            "No problem." He slaps Roger on the back once and then runs off to chat with some other people.

            "What was that about?" I ask when we're alone.

            "My band used to play a lot of gigs here."

            "Oh, you're in a band?"

He nods. "Yeah. The Well Hungarians."

            I pause for a second, trying to recall the name. "I don't think I've ever heard of you…"

            He shakes his head. "No, I doubt you would have. We weren't very good." He laughs a little.

            "Maybe you can play for me sometime? I'd love to hear you…"

            He smiles again. "Yeah, okay." He takes my hand and pulls me out onto the dance floor where we dance until I don't think I can stand up anymore.

            I haven't been on a real date in years, I had forgotten how fun they could be. I definitely had a great time tonight.

            Roger and I walk out onto the street and once again, he invites me over to his place. Only this time, I have to admit that I have a hard time refusing the offer. So I accept and we start walking back to his apartment.

            When we get there Mark is waiting for Roger on the couch and when we walk in Mark jumps up and starts yelling at Roger.

"Roger, where the hell were you?"

"Out," he simply replies and tries to pull me into his bedroom. But I resist, not wanting to get on Mark's bad side.

"It's okay," I whisper to him. "I'll wait while you guys talk, okay?"

He sighs and then finally nods his head and I walk into his room, shutting the door behind me.

From behind the closed door I can hear part of the heated conversation.

            "…Roger, it's almost dawn, where the fuck were you?"

            "I told you, I was at a ba – uh, restaurant and then we went to a club."

            "A restaurant? A restaurant that serves only alcohol, where you got totally wasted, right?"

            "Shut up, Mark. Do I look totally wasted to you?"

            A pause in the conversation.

            "No. Just high."

            I hear Roger sigh. "I smoked one joint, okay? It's not a big deal."

            "Rog, you know I'm just worried about you…"

            "Why? What is there to be worried about? I stayed out late with a girl I really like, I went to a bar and a club… Jeez, I'm not 16! I'm 22, it's not a big deal!"

            Another pause. "I know. I'm just…" He sighs. "I just don't want you to end up like…my father," he says quietly.

            When Roger speaks I can tell that his voice and demeanor have softened considerably. He's no longer talking in loud, angry whispers, but now in a soft, soothing tone. "I'm not going to be like him, Mark. I promise. I've never hurt you before, and I never will. I just like to have a good time."

            "I know. Just…just don't overdo it okay?"

            "I won't. Don't worry about me."

            And then before I know what's happening, the door is opening again and Roger has his arms around me.

            I pull away slightly, my curiosity getting the best of me. "What was that about?"

            "Nothing. Mark's just paranoid about anything and everything in the world." He smiles slightly. "He's a good guy though. Really sweet. I'm known him since high school."

            I'm about to respond but he interrupts me with a kiss and I can tell that this conversation is over. One thing that I overheard them saying out there keeps playing back in my mind.

             _I stayed out late with a girl I really like… A girl I really like… Really like…_

            I smile to myself when we both come up for air. Maybe he's more than just a one night stand after all.  
            


	3. Just Like My Mother

            I wake up early in the morning and rub my eyes sleepily before turning over in bed, delighted to find Roger asleep next to me, one arm draped across my waist. It's been eight weeks since we started dating and things have been going great.

            I spend most of my time either hanging out over here with Roger and his friends, or going out to clubs and partying with him at night. I try not to do too much of that though, because Mark gets pissed every time we come home late and he discovers that Roger's wasted or stoned again.

            It's not nearly as crowded here as it used to be. Maureen moved back into Mark's room, though they get into fights every other day and one of them usually ends up sleeping on the couch.

            Collins, the friend who has AIDS, moved out last week when he got a job teaching computer age philosophy at MIT. Benny still lives here, though he sleeps through most of the day and has taken up permanent residence on the couch. That is, if Mark and Maureen are speaking that day and aren't hogging the couch for themselves. Roger invited me to move in, with all the "extra space," as he put it, and I was hesitant at first but eventually agreed after getting the ok by Mark, Maureen, and Benny.

            It's great. It's like I'm finally part of a real family for once, I finally have the one thing I always wanted as a child. The one thing that none of my father's money could ever buy.

            I feel Roger's warm breath on my neck and I snuggle up to his side, breathing out a sigh of happiness as he tightens his hold on me and pulls me closer.

            Suddenly there's a knock on the door and I pull the sheets up over my chest as Mark walks in.

            "Oh, sorry…I didn't know you were awake…"

I smile a little. "Then why did you come in?"

            He returns the smile. "I didn't know you were still here. It's almost 1:00 and I was going to wake up Sleeping Beauty here," he says, motioning to Roger's motionless form.

            "Oh, okay. Do you want me to leave?" I ask, thinking that he might need to talk to Roger in private.

            "No, that's okay. I just wanted to remind him that he has rehearsal at 1:30 and that he better get up now if he wants to make it in time."

"Oh, alright." I shake the man next to me, ignoring his little grunts and murmurs, and finally he sits up next to me, his eyes half open.

            " 'Morning Sleeyhead," I say and shove him a little more to get him fully awake.

            "Hmm…"  He cracks an eyelid open a little more. "What time is it?"

"Mark said it's almost 1:00."

            "1:00? Oh shit, I have rehearsal in a half hour!"

            He jumps out of bed and throws on some clothes before racing out the door and grabbing a bagel from the bag left out on the counter.

            I smile to myself as I get dressed slowly and then join Roger's side in the kitchen as he gulps down a cup of coffee in between rapid bites of his bagel.

            I pour myself a bowl of cereal and begin to eat as Roger gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and then races out the door.

            Just as I finish the last bite of my Captain Crunch I hear Mark approach as he sighs and slumps down in the chair next to me.

            I take in his frown and wrinkled eyebrow and ask, "Is something wrong?"

He looks up suddenly, like I startled him. "Oh…uh, it's nothing really. Um…Roger said he was going to rehearsal, right?"

            I nod. 

            His face sinks. "Are you sure?"

I nod again. "Yeah. He said he was meeting the guys at 1:30. Why?"

            "Well he forgot one important accessory behind," he says and points to Roger's guitar in the corner.

            I frown, unsure of why this would upset him so much. "He probably just forgot it. I'm sure he'll be back in a few minutes." I try to give him a reassuring smile, though I'm not sure why I need to reassure him in the first place.

            He nods. "Yeah, you're probably right."

            But his expression doesn't change, nor does the frown leave his face.

            A half hour passes, an hour, two, and Roger still doesn't come back. Mark is getting increasingly worried by the minute and after about a half hour of watching him pace around the room I decide to ask the question that's been on my mind since breakfast.

            "Mark?"

He looks up quickly and then down again when he realizes it's only me. "Hm?"

"Why are you so worried? I'm sure he's just using on of his friends' guitar or something…"

            He nods hesitantly. "Yeah, maybe."

            "Maybe? What's wrong, Mark? What do you think he's doing?"

He sighs and then flops down on the couch, giving an over-exaggerated sigh.

            "I don't know. And that's what scares me so much."

            I look at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

            "I just…I mean, well you wouldn't know because you didn't know him before…"

"Before what?"

            "He never used to be like this. Well, he was, but never this much."

            "Like _what??_"

            He sighs again. "Getting drunk, high, partying, staying out 'til 3:00, 4:00 in the morning…"

            I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to say what's on my mind. Roger's said it before. Maureen's said it, even Collins, who's usually the rational one of the group. Mark is like Roger's mother. Constantly worrying for no reason, over-protective… Maureen said it's because they're so close and Mark's just very protective of him. But… I mean, I see their point. 

It isn't unusual for someone to stay out late, get drunk or smoke a joint once in a while… And from what I've seen, Roger doesn't do these things excessively. I mean, sure, I've woken up a bunch of times to the sound of him throwing up in the bathroom, but those times aren't often. And everyone has hangovers now and then. Roger probably just has a low tolerance.

            I open my mouth to say something but as I do, Roger walks in the door and Mark jumps up, startling me a little.

            "Roger, where the fuck have you been?"

            He retreats just a little, a scared expression on his face. "I told you, I was at rehearsal."

            "Without your guitar?" He points to the guitar, still in its case in the corner.

            A look of guilt flashes across Roger's face and I look at him curiously, wondering what this is all about.

"I forgot it and by the time I realized I didn't have it I was halfway there so I just used one of Mike's. It's no big deal, Mark, Jeez…"

            I look from Mark to Roger, and back again, and from the expression on both of their faces, I can tell that this is not going to be pretty. So I quietly back away towards the safety of Roger's room again, cringing when I close the door and still hear them yelling and screaming at each other, accusing the other of anything that comes to mind.

            I sink down on Roger's bed and then feel a spark of pain shoot through me when something sharp and pointy pierces through my skin.

            I get up quickly, rubbing the aching area, and rummage around Roger's side of the bed until I find it. A needle.

            I sink down again on the bed, this time in shock, as I look at it again, praying that it isn't what I think. I quickly start digging through his things: under the mattress, under the pillow, through his drawers, until I find what I had been looking for. And hoping I wouldn't find. A small bag of white powder.

            Suddenly I hear the door bang open and I shove the small bag in my pocket. I plaster a smile on my face but it quickly disappears when I take in Roger's attitude and expression. His hands are shaking. I've never noticed that before, I don't know why. Maybe because I had no reason to even look up until now, or maybe because I just didn't want to.

            "Roger?" I ask tentatively. "Are you okay?"

"Fucking asshole thinks he's my mother… I don't need a babysitter anymore, dammit!"  He's talking mostly to himself, as if I'm not even here.

            He opens the drawer by his bed and starts shuffling through it, obviously looking for the stash that is no longer in there. After a few minutes of rummaging he gets fed up and throws his arms in the air angrily before slamming the drawer closed.

            "Looking for this?" I say, taking the bag out of my pocket and holding it up in front of him.

            His face turns about two shades paler as he says, "How…Where did you find that?"

            "Your drawer."

            We don't say anything for a few seconds, both of us digesting everything that has just happened. I think about how my boyfriend has been using heroin all this time and I had no idea about it, and I'm sure he's thinking that he's been found out, and that I will stop him and tell Mark.

             "Roger…heroin??" I say after awhile.

            He shakes his head and looks down at the floor, obviously still in disbelief that I found out about his secret.

            "I just do it once in a while. I just…sometimes it's just the only thing that works, ya know?"

I shake my head and give him a stern look. "No, I don't know."

            He sighs. "You know that feeling, like the whole world has suddenly turned its back on you? Like there's no one out there to help or even listen? That you're alone? This," he says, taking the bag from my hands, "takes it all away. It makes you feel so… I can't even describe it, it's just the most incredible feeling ever. It's like, you finally have something that'll make you happy no matter what. No matter what shit happened to you, this stuff will always take it away…make you forget about everything."

            I look at the white powder in the bag and then back at the needle that still lays exposed on his bed, and I have to admit that I'm more than a little curious. I've used drugs before: pot, ecstasy, even speed a couple of times. But never heroin.

            "How do you do it?" I ask before my rational side convinces me that it's a bad idea.

            He looks at me and smiles. "Want me to show you?"

I nod hesitantly, interested in the white powder and all it has to offer. I watch as he slaps his arm for a vein and simultaneously melts the powder in a spoon with his lighter. He then finds a vein and shows me how to inject the poison just right, so it hits you in just the right way.

            The peaceful expression on his face is indescribable. He looks totally at ease, like nothing and no one can affect him. I'm definitely interested now.

            I take the needle and bag from him and begin to search my own arm for a vein. Eventually, Roger snaps back to reality somewhat and helps me with the process. It takes a while, since I've never done it before, but eventually the needle is filled with the now smooth liquid and my hand is hovering unsteadily over a vein.

            I take one look at the happy, at-ease expression on his face and it is all the encouragement I need. I close my eyes and plunge the needle into my flesh, wincing slightly as I feel the sharp point pierce my skin.

            I can feel the heroin coursing through my veins. It's a wonderful feeling, knowing that the liquid is spreading to all parts of my body and will soon take over and take me away from the hell that constantly surrounds me.

            Roger looks at me and grins. "Well?"

            I put my head back and laugh, the sound of the high trill making me laugh even more.

            He smiles smugly. "I take it you're enjoying yourself."

            I nod vigorously and laugh again. I never want this to wear off, this is the best feeling in the world. I definitely can't blame Roger for wanting to do this.

            I open my mouth, about to say something about some squirrels I saw in the park earlier today, but as I do a sickening wave of nausea washes through my stomach and I stand up and race to the bathroom, barely making it in time as I vomit into the toilet.

            Roger joins my side, rubbing my back, and I remain in the bathroom for the next hour, feeling like I'm throwing up all of my insides. Eventually the sickening feeling stops and I unsteadily stand up once again, only to collapse again as the queasy feeling returns and I lean over the toilet.

            "It's like that the first few times," he explains. "It'll go away though."

            I nod, too weak to even really talk right now. I think that's the sickest I've ever felt in my life. I can't for the life of me imagine how Roger got through it and then went back for more.

But you know, now that I think about it, I think it's worth it. The feeling of happiness and peace I experienced before is worth a little sickness that will eventually wear off anyway. For once in my life I felt good. Like _really_ good. I didn't even know such feelings were possible.

            I lean against Roger as he helps me back into his room and lays me down on his bed. I spot the needle next to me and I pick it up and twirl it around in my fingers for a second.

            I pout when I notice the empty bag on his nightstand.

"What's wrong, Baby?" he asks through the haze of his own pleasure.

"Where can we get more of this stuff?" I ask weakly, and he smiles.

            "Don't worry. I know where we can get lots more." He says and smiles, wrapping his arms around me as we cuddle together and eventually nod off to sleep.


	4. Facing Reality

            "Roger!" I scream and knock on his door loudly. Mark gives me an odd look from where he sits on the couch but I don't care. There is only one thing on my mind right now and I'm not going to shut up until I get it.

            I call out his name again and bang on the door loudly, desperate to get in there, to him, to my drug. I can feel it starting again. Everything, the cramps, the sickness…everything's starting to spin around in my mind. The only thing I'm aware of is my need for more heroin.

            Suddenly I feel a crippling pain in my stomach and I collapse on the ground in front of Roger's door. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm aware of Mark rushing over to me, of him calling my name, asking questions, but the only thing I can focus on is the pain. Oh God, and now it's spreading to my legs as well, paralyzing them along with the rest of my body.

            I put all my strength into trying to form words, thoughts, sentences. I finally manage to force out "Get Roger," and Mark starts banging on the locked door, again calling out to the man behind the thin wall.

            Finally, after what seems like an eternity of waiting and suffering, Roger opens the door and although the sweat on my forehead is dripping down to my eyes, making it almost impossible to see anything, I can tell from the expression on his face and the blank look in his eyes that he's high again. Oh God, please don't have used it all up…please oh please…

            He stares at me for a while, looking at me doubled over in pain, clutching my stomach, shaking, and dripping with sweat. Finally a look of realization washes across his otherwise expressionless face and he grabs me by my arms, helping my up.

            "Roger!" Mark exclaims. "We have to take her to the hospital!"

            Oh God no…please, no, oh God, don't take me to the hospital…

            I'm aware of the two men talking back and forth, yelling, screaming in excitement and worry. Though I can't make out the words or which person is saying what.

            Finally, Roger lifts me up and carries me into his room with him, despite Mark's yelling and protesting and threats to call an ambulance. I'm not aware of much, but I can feel Roger lift my arm and a few seconds later something piercing through the flesh. And then, as suddenly as it all began, it stops, and I can feel my body beginning to calm down.

            My hands stop shaking, my stomach and legs un-cramp and I can move them again, and the feeling like I'm about to throw up everything inside of me vanishes from my quickly calming stomach.

            We're both quiet for a second, neither of us saying a word as we take in what just happened. Withdrawal.

            Finally Roger glances at the door, where we can still hear Mark yelling on the other side, and he says, "I guess we should make sure he doesn't call that ambulance."

            I nod slowly, my head still aching a little from the dreadful withdrawal symptoms I had experienced minutes before.

            Roger opens the door after hiding his needle and stash, and Mark rushes in and gets down on the floor next to me.

            "April, what happened? Are you okay?"

I nod, wracking my mind for an excuse but can think of none.

            Finally, Roger butts in and says, "She has the flu."

Mark raises an eyebrow questioningly. "The flu? Roger, that didn't look like the flu."

            Roger shrugs and I just sit there, relishing in the fact that I can now feel all limbs of my body.

            "April!"

I look up, suddenly aware of the fact that my name is being called and see Mark staring down at me anxiously.

            "April, are you sure you're okay? That doesn't look like the flu…"

            I nod again. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'll go to the doctor though, alright?"

            He nods, looking satisfied. "Good. Thank you."

Roger looks at me anxiously and I try to give him a look, trying to reassure him that I have no plans on going to the doctor, but he doesn't seem to get it.

            When Mark is finally gone from the room and I'm alone with just Roger and my smack again, Roger says, "You're not really going to go, right?"

            I shake my head. "No, of course not."

            "Good."  He breathes a sigh of relief and sits on the hard wood floor next to me. "Are you okay now?"

I nod. "Yeah. That was scary." I shudder as I remember the feeling. Suddenly it clicks in my brain that Roger is the reason I didn't get the heroin in time. I smack him lightly. "Why the hell didn't you let me in?"

He looks at me apologetically. "I'm sorry…I was just, well I was kinda busy if you know what I mean," he says and points to a red needle prick on his arm, just above one of the many track marks that are now apparent.

            I sigh and lean in against his side. "Don't do that to me again, Baby"

            "I won't. I swear, I just didn't want Mark to see and I couldn't exactly stop right in the middle."

            I nod understandingly. "I know." I snuggle in closer to him and wrap my arms around his waist.

            "Mark's going out tonight," he says suddenly and smiles.

            I look up at him and can't help but smile myself when I see the grin on his face. I know that grin. He's planning something. "So?"

"So I was thinking we could see The Man again, and we'd have the loft all to ourselves…"

I smile brightly. We'd be here all alone with all the smack we need.

            Maureen moved out a few weeks ago. She and Mark constantly got in fights every other day and she said she just couldn't stand living here with him anymore. They're still going out, I think, but we rarely ever see her. I don't even think Mark really does. Maureen accused him of only paying attention to Roger and never spending any time with her anymore. She said he was all Mark could ever think about and that she was sick of it.

            And I have to admit, she has a point. Mark knows something's up, but how close to the truth he is, I don't know.  He thinks Roger drinks too much and knows he's dabbled with drugs. That much I know because I hear them argue about it constantly. What he doesn't know is that half the time he thinks Roger's drunk he's really stoned, or a combination of both.

            Which is one of the reasons that Benny moved out last week also. That, plus the fact that he has a new, rich girlfriend who invited him to live with her in her fancy apartment on the East Side. Muffy, I think her name is. 

They started dating last month and they're already starting to plan for their wedding. Honestly, I don't know what Benny sees in her at all. Sometimes I think he's just marrying her for the money, because I know they're not really in love.

            A lot of times I see him hanging out at the Cat Scratch Club, a strip club not far from here, flirting with this cute Latino woman. I see them together often because The Man, my dealer, is known to hang around there a lot as well.

            Suddenly I feel a tug at my side and I realize that Roger is standing up and pulling on my arm, motioning for me to get up as well.

            "Where are we going?" I ask as I allow him to pull me to my feet.

            "We have to find The Man before Mark leaves."

            I nod and we walk out of the loft together, hand in hand, with the money that Mark loaned Roger "to get his guitar repaired", to find The Man.

            An hour later we walk back in the front door, our pockets filled with three grams of smack (all we could afford), giggling and stumbling over everything that gets in our way.

            Mark is sitting on the couch, reading the New York Times, and jumps when Roger trips over the coffee table, falling right on top of Mark.

            "Oops," he giggles and pushes himself back up.

            "Roger?" Mark raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "Are you okay?"

            Roger nods and laughs again. "Perfectly fine."

He starts to walk away but Mark grabs his arm and gives him a look. I know that look. I quickly walk towards Roger's bedroom, closing the door just as I hear the beginning of the all too familiar argument.

            After 15 minutes of listening to the screaming and the accusations being thrown back and forth, Roger comes storming in again, though he's definitely not in the light, happy state in which I last saw him.

            His hands are shaking again, I notice, as he reaches in his pocket and then fumbles with his lighter.

            "Need some help, Baby?" I ask, noticing that he seems to be having a bit of trouble with his hands shaking so hard.

            He shakes his head and eventually he gets the white powder down to a smooth liquid and injects it into his arm. After a few moments I can visibly see him relax, and he returns to the mood he was in before his fight with Mark.

            We have fun for a while, finding humor in what used to seem like the most ordinary things: the way the branches of the trees tap against the building, producing a hilarious "ticking" sound; the squeaking sound that the bed makes when you pounce on it in just the right way…everything is great and we have a blast just laughing and having fun.

            I try to think of the last time I was high enough to put me in this blissful state. It was in the beginning, almost a year ago, one of the first times I shot up. Recently, that amazing high is getting harder and harder to reach. A gram used to do it for me. Now, a gram is just enough to keep me from keeling over in pain, just enough to keep me normal and away from the awful withdrawal symptoms.

            I almost never experience the same buzz anymore that I used to in the beginning. And I miss it. But it takes so much smack to get me to that point that I usually never do it. There are rare circumstances, like tonight, that Roger and I decide to blow all our money and buy enough smack to put both of us in that state for quite a while. But those times are few and far between. Mostly because neither of us have the money.

            I sold my apartment for quite a bit of money but it was quickly used up in the span of time that Roger and I have been using. He still plays gigs and I work part time as a waitress, and it's enough to get by. Enough to keep us normal and out of withdrawal, but definitely not fun anymore, like it was in the beginning.

            Suddenly there's a knock on the door and it startles both me and Roger as I fall off his bed and onto the floor, still laughing my ass off. Roger laughs too as he jumps down and bounces over to the door, opening it for Mark.

            Mark gives us a questioning look and opens his mouth as if he's about to say something but he closes it again and then says, "I won't even ask. I don't even want to know what you guys are on right now." He clears his throat. "Yeah, um, I'm leaving now. Try not to get into too much trouble, okay?"

Roger rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay Mommy," he says and laughs.

            Mark just sighs and closes the door, muttering something under his breath but I'm laughing too hard to make out or even care about what it is.

            Things continue on like this for the rest of the night. Me and Roger have a great time and eventually wear ourselves out and we fall asleep, exhausted, in each others arms.

Mark POV:

            "Do you want to come in?" I ask Maureen before opening the front door to the loft.

            She pauses. "No thanks. I need to get back, I have a performance tomorrow and I need to get up early."

I sigh and nod. "Okay." I lean in to give her a quick kiss on the lips but she ducks it, turning her head so I kiss her cheek instead.

            " 'Night Mark," she says and then takes off down the stairs before I even have the chance to respond.

            I sigh and put the rusty key in the lock and turn it, opening the door and walking in.

            I spot the door to Roger and April's room open and I go over to close it, but as I grab the doorknob, about to pull it closed, the light from the hallway catches Roger's figure, his arms wrapped securely around April, and I freeze, gaping at them.

            Roger's not wearing a shirt. And his arms…oh God…track marks? No…Roger wouldn't do that. He wouldn't…would he?

            I sneak in closer to get a better look and I pick up his arm lightly, inspecting it, and then take the other, searching it as well. It's the same as the other. Track marks all over. Jesus, he looks like a junkie… 

            The realization that he probably _is _a junkie flashes through my mind and I have to fight the urge to be sick. I drop his arm quickly and pick up April's. It's the same as Roger's.

            Fuck… I walk out of the room quietly and close the door behind me, then go over to the couch and flop down, leaning my head against the back.

            I knew Roger was doing something. I've known for a long time. I thought he was drinking too much, partying too hard, and I knew he was probably doing some kind of drugs. But I never thought… God, heroin.

            Suddenly the image of April on the floor, shaking and clutching her stomach, comes back to me and my eyes fly open in realization. Of course it wasn't the flu…she was going through fucking withdrawal! And then she went in Roger's room and in a few minutes she was fine again…

            I get up quickly and go into Roger's room again with a flashlight, trying to be quiet as I dig through his drawers and the pockets of pants and other clothes he hasn't washed in weeks. In the drawer by his bed I find some needles, a spoon, and a lighter. But no smack. I frown and continue my search, looking under pillows, the mattress, behind pictures…anywhere I can think of. But I see no sign of drugs anywhere.

            It occurs to me that they might have used it all already and I frown again, hesitantly leaving the room and return to my spot on the couch.

            I try to think about where to go from here. Do I talk to them? Tell someone (Yeah right, who is there to tell?)? Keep them from leaving the loft? Finally I decide that the latter would be the best choice for now. I won't tell Roger that I know because I can only imagine the fights that would follow, the excuses and lies…

            No, no that definitely would not be a good idea. But what _should_ I do?

            I sigh and lean my head back against the top of the couch again, deciding that the best thing to do for now would be to go to sleep and see what happens in the morning, since I'm obviously far too exhausted and confused to do anything about it tonight.

            I go into my room, making sure to set my alarm clock for early the next morning. I want to be up before Roger and April so I can be sure they don't leave the house to get more smack.

            After a while, I eventually fall asleep, pushing the thoughts about two of my best friends being junkies out of my mind for now. Tonight I'll rest, tonight I won't think about it at all, I'll allow myself one good night of sleep before all hell breaks loose. 

And tomorrow…well, I don't want to even think about tomorrow. Because I know that come morning, I will have to face the fact that my two best friends are junkies. I will have to face everything I've been trying to deny for months, and I will have to face the reality that I could lose them both if something isn't done about it, and soon.


	5. Breaking Point

April POV:

            I awake early the next morning to the sound of Mark's alarm clock blaring through the thin wall that separates his room from ours. I groan and look at the watch still attached to my wrist. 6:00? Why would Mark set his alarm clock for this early in the morning?

            I roll over slightly, turning away from the wall, and feel a sharp pain shoot through my back and neck. I open my eyes and it is then that I realize that Roger and I fell asleep on the floor.

            I shake the man, still sound asleep, next to me and he grunts a little and then lazily cracks his eyelids open.

            "April?" he murmurs sleepily and turns his head to the window. "It's still dark out…"

            "I know," I whisper, keeping my voice low so Mark doesn't hear me. "We need to see The Man…"

            This gets him wide awake, as he remembers that we used up all our smack last night and need to get more before Mark is awake and asking questions.

            He stands up, wearing the same clothes he was wearing the night before, and I glance down at myself and notice that I too forgot to get dressed before falling asleep. Or…passing out. The latter is more likely, considering that we are both still fully clothed and on the floor.

            We step out of the room and walk quietly into the living room, digging through our pockets at the same time looking for any money whatsoever that we didn't spend last night. We're so intent on scrounging up any form of money at all that we don't even see Mark sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of steaming coffee.

            "Good morning."

            I turn around, startled, and scream, surprising Roger as well as he trips over his guitar case, which was carelessly left out on the floor.

            Mark looks a little startled himself at my reaction.

            "Hey," Roger mutters as he picks himself up and resumes his path to the door.

            Mark jumps in front of him. "Where are you going?"

"Out," Roger replies as he shoves Mark out of his way. I follow closely behind, desperate to get to The Man and to my drug.

            Mark steps in his way again and I begin to notice Roger's hands shaking a little as he attempts to push Mark away.

            "Wait Roger," Mark says, grabbing hold of his arm. "Why don't you have breakfast first?"

            Roger glances at me and I say quickly, "We're eating out."

            Roger nods. "Yeah. We're going to the Life."

            He tries to walk out the door again but Mark stops him. "Rog, it's only 6:00. The Life isn't open yet."

            "Get the hell out of my way," Roger growls, shoving Mark, hard, against the wall.

            At any other time, I would have felt bad for Mark, and angry at Roger for treating him this way. But right now, the only thing on my mind is shooting up, so I don't object or protest, I simply slip out the door quickly while Mark is still on the ground looking up at Roger in shock.

            I can hear Mark yelling at Roger to come back but Roger doesn't listen and in a few seconds he joins me outside and he grabs my hand as we walk…well, more like run…down the street, looking in the park, in alleyways, anywhere we can think of to find The Man before the shaking we are both beginning to feel gets any worse.

            An hour later we walk back in the loft, satisfied now that the poison has been injected and is coursing through our veins, calming our bodies.

            Mark is sitting on the couch and doesn't look up when he hears us come in.

            "Hey Mark," Roger slurs and continues the path to his room.

            "Where were you?" Mark asks, without looking up from the newspaper in his lap.

            "None of your business."

At this Mark throws the newspaper down and grabs Roger by the shoulders, pushing him down onto the couch. This startles me and I quickly retreat to Roger's room, afraid that I might be next if I don't get out of there soon.

            From behind the closed door I can hear the conversation and it is scaring me, making my need for more heroin greater and greater as it continues. From what I can hear, Mark found out about our addiction…or at least that's what he keeps calling it. I can't make out very much though, because the pounding in my head is growing louder and louder. The only thing I can concentrate on is the shaking of my hands, the only thing my mind can focus on is getting more smack.

Mark POV:

            I shake my head and stare down at the floor, unable to believe that Roger is still trying to deny this after everything that's happened. Doesn't he know how obvious it is?

            Suddenly I hear a loud crash coming from Roger's room and I run in there to see what happened. Roger on the other hand, takes this opportunity to run out of the loft, presumably to buy more smack. I shake my head again. Unbelievable. That's not Roger. The Roger I used to know would have dropped anything for his friends, would have sacrificed anything for their well-being. 

            That man…well, that's not even a person at all. He's the shell of a man that used to be my best friend. He's not my best friend anymore. No, now his only friend is the one thing that has him under complete control, the poison that's taking his life and the lives of the people around him: heroin.

            I suddenly hear the sound of Roger's door opening again and I turn around quickly to see April race out of his room and into the bathroom where she vomits into the toilet. I follow closely and hold her hair back as she continues to heave for the next half hour.

            Finally, she collapses on the floor and I slide down next to her, holding her in my arms to try and ease the shaking that has overcome her body. We don't say anything but I know we are both thinking the same thing. She knows she needs help. Whether she's willing to admit it or not, she knows the truth.

            After a while she begins to cry out in pain and I just hold her closer, at a loss of what to do for I have never found myself in this position before. Finally I just scoop her up in my arms and carry her back to Roger's room, placing her on the bed and laying the thickest blanket I can find over her frail body.

            She grabs onto the corners of the sheets and holds it so tightly that I can see her knuckles beginning to turn white.

            I look around quickly for a phone, deciding that maybe I should call a doctor since I have no idea what you're supposed to do for people in withdrawal.

            I walk out of the room, promising to be back soon and just as I pick up the phone I hear the front door to the loft open and Roger walks in, looking happy and serene. I take one look at his face and want to slap him. He's high again. He went out for a bit of fun while his girlfriend was writhing in pain on the bathroom floor, covered in her own sweat and vomit.

            I glare at him and he stares back at me with a blank look on his face. I just stand there looking at the shadow of a man that stands before me for a few seconds before a high-pitched scream comes from the bedroom, snapping me out of my daze.

            I turn around to run back to April but before I even have the chance to move, Roger dashes in ahead of me and locks the door securely behind him.

            After a few minutes, I can hear the pained screams begin to die off and in its place are drug induced giggles. I shake my head sadly, fed up with the two of them and their drug habits.

            I sigh, kicking the newspaper that now lies at my feet. I can't take it anymore, I need to get away. I've been staying in the loft for weeks now, never going out just in case Roger and April went out and got too wasted to find make it home on their own and needed someone to pick them up. I've taken care of them when they were too messed up or uncaring to do it for themselves, spent hours with them in the bathroom, holding back April's hair, rubbing Roger's back when they had no money to get the heroin they needed to prevent them from going into withdrawal… I never see Maureen anymore because I always have to be here in case Roger or April need me, but I can't play nursemaid to them any longer.

            I sigh angrily and snatch my camera up from the kitchen table and start heading out the door. I need a break. Maybe I can stay with Collins for a few days until I figure out what to do. My hand is on the doorknob and I'm about to leave but as a last thought I stop and pick up Roger's guitar as well, knowing that he'd sell it if he got desperate enough. And I know he'd regret that later on.

            So, with my camera and Roger's guitar in hand I manage to open the front door to the loft and walk down the stairs onto the street, the sounds of April and Roger giggling haunting my mind even as I reach Collins' apartment and step inside. 


	6. Apologies

Mark POV:

            I've been staying with Collins for about two weeks now. At first I called the loft every day to check up on Roger and April, making sure they were okay and actually conscious and alive. But eventually they just stopped answering the phone. The first few times it happened I got scared and went over to the loft to check on them. It was always the same. I would knock on the door, receive no answer, and then just walk in to find them sitting together, obviously stoned, and staring into space. Those were not the people I used to know. Those people have been replaced by zombies, and I couldn't stand to see them that way so I never stayed long.

Once I realized that they had just stopped answering the phone altogether I stopped calling. And I never went back to check.

I just couldn't take living in the loft anymore with them. It's so hard watching them do this to themselves and not being able to do a damn thing about it. When they want to get help, I'll be there for them. I'll be by their side in a second. But until then I'm staying out of the picture. 

I still stop over there once in a while, just to make sure they're actually still alive, but other than that I don't have any contact with them at all. They've made it clear that that's how they want it and I know there's nothing I can do for them anyway until they want the help. I've accepted that that's how it has to be and try to convince myself that things will get better. That they'll realize what they're doing to themselves and stop, before it's too late.

            But there are times when I just lie awake on Collins' couch, unable to fall asleep, and wonder if it's already too late. Is it even possible to hope that Roger and April can get better? Is it too much to hope that they'll even _want_ to?

            There's a voice in the back of my head that's telling me to just give up, to forget about them and cut them out of my life since they've obviously cut me and everyone else out of theirs. But I just can't do that. Because as long as there's still that small shimmer of hope that things can get back to normal, I'm not giving up.

            Suddenly my thoughts are interrupted by the shrill ringing of the phone next to me. I contemplate screening but decide against it, since Collins is at work and would probably want me to take his messages.

            I let the phone ring once more and then pick it up, muttering "Hello," into the receiver, expecting it to be Collins' boyfriend, Steve, who's pretty much the only one who ever calls here.

            There's silence on the other end so I say "Hello," again, a little louder this time. I can hear deep breaths and it sounds like the caller is trying to stifle and choke back the sobs evident in the voice but is having a hard time. Finally, the person speaks but I don't recognize it at first through the heavy sobs and sniffles.

            "Mark?" the voice asks timidly.

            "Yes…who's thi – April??"

            Some more sniffling and then a weak, "Yeah."

            I don't know what to say at first so I don't say anything. I have to say that I'm more than a little worried that she would call me, and even more so as I hear her trying to choke back her cries. I wonder if something happened to Roger, if he's sick or hurt, and why she didn't turn to him or heroin like she'd always done in the past. I know that something really serious must have happened for her to call me.

Finally, I manage to say, "Is everything alright?"

            After a few seconds of silence I barely hear her say, "Just…can you come over?"

            "Of course," I say and am about to pry further into the reason for the call and for her wanting to see me, but before I can even open my mouth I hear a click and a dial tone ringing in my ear.

            I hang up the phone quickly and don't even bother throwing on a jacket as I rush out of Collins' apartment to the loft as quickly as I can. When I get there and walk inside the first thing I notice is the stale stench of vomit that hits me the second I'm through the door. And then the heaving noises coming from the bathroom.

            I look inside to see April collapsed in front of the porcelain bowl, covered in sweat, her thinning brown hair hanging in her face as she continues to throw up, not even aware of my presence in the room.

            "April?" I say quietly and when I get no response I get down next to her and hold her hair out of her face.

            When she finishes she collapses weakly onto the floor again and I reach up to the sink and snatch a towel to wipe her face with.

            "Are you okay?" I ask quietly, not really even needing to hear the answer.

            She shakes her head and then begins sobbing into my shoulder, though I'm not sure if it's from the immense pain that I'm sure she must be feeling or something else… I hope it's from the pain because it scares me just thinking about what the something else could be.

            All of a sudden she starts rambling on about something. I can't quite make out all the words through her heavy sobs but I can hear "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and "I love him so much," being repeated over and over again.

            Oh God, now I'm really starting to get scared. "April, did something happen to Roger?" I ask anxiously.

            "N-no," she chokes out before resuming the sobs. I rock her for a while, unsure if this is doing anything at all for her but at least she knows I'm here. And that I'll help her through whatever it is and won't leave.

            "Mark, I'm so sorry about everything," she says after a few minutes. "I never meant for this to happen…it just…I'm so sorry…"

            "Shh, it's okay. You don't have to be sorry."

            "No, no I _do_ need to be sorry." She starts crying again and through her tears I can see something in her eyes, something that I haven't seen in her in quite some time: Sorrow, regret, and helplessness. But most of all there's the emotion that's been lacking there for months now, and I wonder what caused the sudden change in her attitude…what's causing these tears and the choked apologies issuing from her lips.

            "I took over your life, his life, I forced you out of your own apartment… I'm so sorry Mark, I never meant for any of this to happen." She sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

            I reach up to the sink again and hand her a tissue before saying "I know. It's okay… You do want to stop, right?"

            I can sense the hesitation in her voice as she says, "I…yeah. I do but I don't know if I can."

            I'm about to say something but she interrupts me. "Listen, what I really needed to talk to you about was Roger."

            I nod and wait for her to continue but suddenly she lifts herself off the floor and vomits into the toilet again. When she finishes I help her into a more comfortable position and lay her down on the floor with her head in my lap, cringing when I see the look of pain on her face as she clenches her fists so hard that I see a trickle of blood trail from her palm to the off-white ceramic tiles on the floor.

            Finally she says, "Roger's a ju…well, you know. He can't stop, he doesn't want to. And he…he needs to." She pauses. "Can you help him, Mark? Will you be there for him?"

            I nod quickly. "Of course. But what about you?"  
            She shakes her head and then grimaces in pain, the movement obviously hurting her. "I can't save him. I already killed him," she says softly.

            "What are you talking about?" I say quickly, knowing there's something she's not telling me.

            "Never mind. Listen, Roger's going to be home any second. I don't want him to see you here." She tries to stand but is swiftly knocked back down by another wave of nausea.

            I catch her in my arms and lay her gently back down. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

            She nods but I know she's lying. "Come over tonight Mark. Talk to him, okay?"

            I nod and look down at her lying, sprawled out on the bathroom floor, sweating, dry patches of vomit stuck in her hair, and clutching her stomach in pain with the hands she can't seem to get to stop shaking. Tears fill my eyes and I quickly turn away before they have the chance to escape. I want to stay, to help her more, but I can hear the thud of Roger's heavy boots quickly approaching. So I turn around and walk out of the loft, only stopping briefly to mutter a quick hello to Roger, vowing to myself to come back tonight to talk to Roger alone.

April POV:

            As soon as Mark is gone Roger approaches me and takes in my state. After surveying me for a few seconds he grunts and tosses me a bag filled with white powder, along with a needle, a spoon, and his lighter. And then… he walks away.

            I can feel the cool tears splashing down my cheeks again as I watch his retreating figure walk away, uncaring, and slam the door to his room shut. Is this what its come to? Is heroin really more important to him than me? My body starts shaking again, though this time it's not due to the withdrawal symptoms…it's from my sobs.

            When did it get like this? When did heroin become the most important thing in our lives? When did having a little fun sometimes turn into addiction?

            I stare at the little plastic bag next to me, filled with the magic white powder that can take everything away. I swore I would stop but it doesn't really matter now, does it? I know what I have to do. And I can't do it in the condition I'm in now.

            So with shaking hands I melt the powder down to a smooth liquid in the spoon and somehow manage, despite the trembling of my body, to get it in the needle and then into a vein.

            A vein. I stare at my arms covered in track marks and collapsed veins, remembrance of the past six months of shooting up, wasting my life away. I look at the one right above my palm, on my wrist. And I grab for a razor.

            I turn on the shower faucets, razor in hand, and get into the bathtub, still fully clothed so that the running water will wash away my blood. Then I place the note I had written earlier on the sink, hoping that Roger finds it and takes it seriously and will get the help he needs.

            I say a silent prayer for Roger, begging for some miracle, for some person – a guardian angel – to protect him and take care of him until he's better. To make sure he takes care of himself and gets tested. I'd failed him…killed him. And now someone needs to be there to save him.

            And then I take the razor and stab it into my wrist, dragging it down to my elbow, watching as the tainted blood spills from the long gash as the tears do from my eyes.

            "I'm sorry Roger," I whisper over and over again. Sorry for leaving you, sorry for not being there for you, sorry for abandoning you, sorry for killing you.


	7. A Razor and a Note

Roger POV:

            I walk in the front door of the loft, pockets filled with smack and the cash I just got when I sold our tv that barely even worked anymore. I can feel my hands beginning to shake, the need rising up in my body again and I quicken my pace to my bedroom, where I left my needle and spoon. But something stops me.

            Maybe it was the trail of blood running underneath the closed bathroom door, or the sound of running water splashing onto the floor. Or just the overall sense that something wasn't right.

            I turn quickly and open the bathroom door, my boots immediately soaked with the tinged red water that is now pooling around my feet. I don't notice the pinkish quality of the water, I don't notice my girlfriend's body laying dead in the bathtub, I don't notice the letter left out on the sink. I _do_ notice the needle and lighter on the windowsill and I turn around to pick them up. And that's when I see it.

            April's pale, unmoving body, the long gashes in both her wrists, the bluish tint of her lips…all of these things indicating death. April. Dead.

            I collapse to the ground, my legs too weak to hold me up as I'm overtaken by the shock and fear and panic, and of course guilt when I realize that I could have prevented this. I could have saved her…

            As the tears start escaping my eyes I remember earlier in the day when I had come home to see her in the bathroom, crying, throwing up, shaking, sweating, screaming in pain. And I had tossed her the smack and gone back to my room. I could hear the sobs coming from behind the closed bathroom door for the rest of the day, but I had ignored them. I ignored them for months. And now…now it's too late to do anything about it. 

            I start sobbing myself at the realization that if it weren't for me she would probably be alive right now, crying at the fact that I lost my April, and screaming at myself, at her, at anyone that can hear me. Screaming that it's just not fair.

            I lift my head slightly and that's when something catches the corner of my eye. It's a yellow note, written in April's handwriting. I snatch it up and read it quickly, tears still brimming in my eyes and splashing down to stain the yellow piece of paper in my hands.

            Three words. We got AIDS. 

We. Got. AIDS.

            I'm silent for a moment, I just stare at the paper, not believing the words written so plainly in front of my face.

            No, no it can't be true… We were always so careful, we were so sure that this kind of thing would never happen to us!

            I start sobbing again, shaking and screaming and tearing the note to shreds. As if it weren't real, if it didn't exist anymore the words wouldn't be true.

            I scoop April into my arms, lifting her from the bathtub and gently rocking her back and forth in my arms, not even bothering to turn off the water as it spills over the sides of the tub and onto the floor, continuing to soak the both of us. This is how I'll die. Drowning in my own sorrows, tears, water, and the blood from the woman I loved.

Mark POV:

            I sigh as I stand in front of the loft, hand in the air ready to knock. True to my word, I came back as I had promised April to talk to Roger. I don't know why. I don't know why she thinks tonight will be any different from the rest, why tonight he'll listen when for months he didn't want to have anything to do with me. But… I said I'd talk to him and even though I doubt it'll do anything except cause another argument, another fight, I'll do it anyway. For her. For Roger.

            I knock a few times and receive no answer. Well it wasn't like I was really expecting one anyway. I sigh again and push the door open but freeze when I hear the choked sobs coming from the bathroom. But these sobs aren't from April. No, they're from Roger. 

I can't remember the last time I heard Roger cry…or show any emotion at all for that matter. He's been numb for months now, not caring about anything but obtaining more and more of his drug. And I know that to be hearing what I'm hearing now, something must be very, very wrong.

            I approach the bathroom cautiously. "Roger?"  
            No answer.

            I sigh and call out a little louder. "Roger!"

            Still no answer.

            I push the door open and the first thing I realize is that the bathroom is flooded. It isn't until I reach over to turn off the faucets that I see Roger sitting on the floor, rocking April in between crying and throwing up.

            "Oh shit," I whisper when I notice that her body is pale and unmoving. I try to get her away from Roger but he cries out in protest when I so much as touch her.

            "Roger," I try to say in a calm voice, attempting to push back my own tears and hurt and loss. "We have to call an ambulance…"

            He shakes his head but the slight movement of turning his head nauseates him and he leans forward to vomit into the toilet once again.

            I take this opportunity to seize April's body from Roger for a closer inspection. Her eyes are glossed over, her lips are blue, and the hands that I've held so many times when she was going through withdrawal are ice cold, and for the first time in months un-shaking.

            She's dead. I try to push back my own tears as Roger continues to sob in between gagging and I rub his back, trying to comfort him, trying to do anything to make this a little easier on him at all.

            When he finally stops he sits on the soaked floor again and leans back against the slippery edge of the tub, trying to look strong but not doing a very good job at all.

            "She's dead Rog," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice even.

            I call an ambulance and after I talk to the paramedics they take April away and I'm left in the loft alone with Roger. For the first time since I've been here the loft is absolutely silent…no sobs, no screaming, no sounds of someone throwing up… and it scares me. Because I can only imagine what Roger must be doing right now.

            "Roger!" I call out quickly, running into the bathroom. He's gone. All that remains in the bathroom is the pinkish water that still floods the floor, a razor now painted red, and a few ripped pieces of yellow paper scattered around the floor. But no Roger.

            Suddenly I hear a loud, high-pitched sob sound coming from Roger's room and I run in there to see what's wrong. When I get there I freeze in the doorway, not believing the image in front of me.

            Roger is sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, with a needle poised above his arm, trying to find a vein that's not already collapsed.

            "I can't do it Mark," he says softly.

            "What can't you do?" Please, oh please God, let him mean that he can't shoot up again, can't ruin his life anymore, can't continue down this path he's heading…

            "I can't find a vein…"

            I guess it was too much to hope that he'd actually want to stop. I sigh and reach out to take the needle from his shaking hand. 

            "Hey," he protests weakly but he can't finish his thought because as soon as he opens his mouth he's swiftly hit with another wave of nausea. He runs into the bathroom and I follow closely behind him, rubbing his back and making sure he doesn't pass out from the pain or dehydration.

            The rest of the night pretty much goes the same way. Roger spends almost the entire night in the bathroom, leaning over the toilet, or trying to get access to the needles I took away when I realized he would stop at nothing to shoot up again. And I spend all my time in the bathroom with him, rubbing his back, holding his hand when the pain is too much, and making sure he doesn't get to those needles.

            I don't leave Roger's side the entire time because I know that if I do he'll find some way to get high again. Either that or he'll take the easy way out, like April, and kill himself. One suicide is enough for me, I don't need Roger to end up dead in the bathroom too.

            At first I try to get Roger to sleep, figuring that if he's asleep he won't be able to shoot up. Then I realized that insomnia is a major part of withdrawal. I try to stay awake for Roger, try to fight the fatigue that is tugging at my eyelids so that I can protect him from himself, but it's too much. The sadness and loss and grief and guilt I feel for leaving April alone is too much and eventually I nod off to sleep, leaving Roger alone, granting him free access to razors, needles, smack, and whatever other drugs I'm sure he has lying around the loft.

            The last thing I think of before drifting off into a nearly unconscious sleep is that when I wake up in the morning I hope I don't find that Roger's given up too and has gone to join April wherever she may be right now.


	8. We Got AIDS

A/N:  I just felt the need for some Roger angst before anything real happens. Keep reading, things are going to start happening again in the next chapter.

Roger POV:

            We got AIDS. The words keep repeating in my head, over and over, all night while Mark stays by my side, preventing me from getting rid of the pain that's tearing me apart.

            I know that he's grieving too. April was his friend too. And he hasn't cried once, at least not that I know of. He's trying to be strong, for me, trying to save me. But I can't be saved. And I don't want to be.

            He took the razors. Stole them along with my stash, my lighter, and all my needles. And stayed by my side all night long. But he's asleep now.

            I look down at his exhausted body, curled up on the floor of my room. I feel bad for doing what I'm about to do, I know how it would hurt him if he knew. But it's hurting me so much more if I don't do it. I can't take it…the pain, both physical and emotional…I need an escape!

Why did she have to leave me? She took the easy way out, leaving me to clean up the mess myself. We got AIDS. Nothing else. No "I love you," no "I'm sorry." Just those three cold words. We. Got. AIDS.

            They won't leave me alone. I ripped up the note, but the words are already burned into my brain, etched into my memory forever along with the image of my girlfriend lying dead in the bathtub, wrists slit with a razor. My razor.

            It was my razor that killed her… No, it was _me_ that killed her. I was the one who had gotten her involved with drugs, me that had shared my needles, me who had been too careless to use a condom. _I_ was the one who gave us AIDS. I was the one who killed us.

            Even though it was her who took the razor and slit both her wrists it was me that stole the life from her. I remember the happy, vibrant girl I had met so many months ago in a bar. The girl that was so happy just to be with me, to be with her friends…so willing to give up her fancy apartment to live in this tiny space with the people she loved.

            That wasn't the same girl who sold most of her possessions for drug money, wasn't the same girl who's been shooting up with me…wasn't the same girl who slit her wrists in the bathroom. That was the zombie I had turned that girl into. And now that girl – that once happy, loving girl – is gone.

            I feel another intense pain shoot through me and I clutch my stomach for a few minutes, trying hard not to scream out in pain, and wait for it to subside. When it finally does I get up quickly, the need taking over every other thought in my mind, pushing everything else aside.

            It's hard to walk with my legs cramping so much that they're almost paralyzed, but I push through the pain – or try to – as I dig through Mark's pockets, go though his drawers, tear apart his room, until I find what I'm looking for.

            Here it is, under his mattress. My needle, lighter, and smack. I hurry into the kitchen for a spoon, bringing the rest of my tools with me because I know I won't have the strength to walk back and get them later.

            With shaking hands I melt the white powder, slap my arm for a vein, fill the needle, and inject the poison into my arm. When I feel the heroin coursing through my veins I almost moan out lout at the feeling of relaxation and comfort that quickly fills me as the liquid continues to travel to all parts of my body.

            I glance down at the now empty bag in my hands and silently wish that I had had enough to end everything. End the pain once and for all, end the hurt and heartache. Then the words wouldn't matter. We got AIDS_. _ They wouldn't matter at all.

            I know I could do it. I could go in the kitchen, select the sharpest knife I can find, and give up just like April. But I won't. At least not tonight. Because Mark's already lost one friend to suicide tonight and I'm not that selfish as to cause him to lose another.

            No, I'll wait. I'll suffer for a few more days, a few weeks, years… I don't want to do it to him, I don't want to put him through another suicide but it has to be done. I can't face the fact that she's dead, and I can't face the words on the note. Either way I'll end up dead anyway. It'll just be easier and faster this way. I'll die quickly and I'll never have to find out if the words are true.

            We got AIDS.

            Even with all the heroin in my body I still can't forget. The words are still haunting me, repeating over and over, making me want to throw up. Making me actually wish I was still experiencing withdrawal symptoms because at least then I'd be focused on the pain and nothing else. The pain would drive all other thoughts from my mind, making me forget the note and the words. We got AIDS.

            Yes, the grass is always greener isn't it? A half hour ago all I could think about was getting high, shooting up again so that I could forget. And now here I am wasted, and all I can think about is going back into withdrawal so that I can forget.

            I laugh bitterly at that thought. I'd never heard of a junkie that actually _wanted_ to be in withdrawal.

            I pause for a second. That's the first time I've ever thought of myself as a junkie. But I guess it's true. April said I was. I remember her accusing me of being a junkie, saying that she was also and that we had to stop. 

            We got AIDS.

Did she know all along? Did she keep her secret all that time, waiting to tell me in her suicide note?

            I remember the first time she said she wanted to stop. She had been out for most of the day – I had assumed it was to obtain more drugs or money to buy them with. She was crying when she got back. I had been too wasted at the time to care, but I had noticed. I didn't give much thought to it, didn't question her or even stop to wonder what was wrong. But it was always in the back of my mind.

            As the weeks went by she continued to cry more and more often. When that happened I would toss her some smack and that would calm her down for a while. But the tears never really stopped.

            Now they've stopped for good. Oh, how I wish I could her those cries just once more…  I never really took the time to hear what she was trying to tell me. Maybe if I had paid more attention I would have heard past the cries to what she was really trying to say: that she was hurt, scared, in need of a friend…a boyfriend.

            But no, I was too wrapped up in my own problems, too concerned with obtaining more smack to listen to her. I wish I had. Then maybe she'd still be alive today.

            I hear Mark begin to stir in my room and I quickly hide my needle and smack, just in time, as he walks into the room and sits next to me on the couch.

            He looks me over closely and then states, "You're not in withdrawal."

            After I don't say anything he sighs but I get up before he can say anything else. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. I need April, I need more smack, I need a razor. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need help.

            We got AIDS.

            Mark wouldn't understand, I can't tell him. But I can't face this on my own.

            Wordlessly I walk into the kitchen and grab the phone, stretching the cord so that it fits in the bathroom with me. I securely lock the door so Mark won't get in (he probably thinks I'm shooting up again) and I dial a familiar number.

            The phone rings three times before someone picks up.

            "Hello?"

            I pause when I hear his voice. I haven't talked to him in months. I wonder if he even knows what's going on, that I've been wasting my life away shooting up, that I took the life of my girlfriend by introducing her to my drug… Am I doing the right thing? Should I just forget about this and end my life the same way as she?

            He speaks again and I can detect a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "Is anyone there?"

            And I chicken out. He got AIDS from his boyfriend, not a dirty needle, not from a heroin addiction. He wouldn't understand. No, there's only one thing to do and as I slam down the phone, all thoughts of hurting Mark, my parents, my friends, are pushed out of my mind as I open the medicine cabinet and start hunting for any razors that Mark might have missed.


	9. Secrets Revealed

Roger POV:

            No razors. I can't believe it, no razors anywhere. Mark really got them all. I would go out into the kitchen and get a knife but Mark is probably still sitting on the couch and would see me and question me as to what I would be doing with a knife.

            The heroin is starting to wear off, I can feel it. And I need to get this over with fast because I won't be able to do it in withdrawal and I used up the last of my smack before.

            I hear footsteps approaching the bathroom and I pause, trying to be absolutely silent so that hopefully whoever it is will leave me alone.

            "Roger?"

            Mark. Of course. I don't know why I thought it would be anyone else. Maybe if I ignore him for long enough he'll go away.

            "Roger, what are you doing in there? You've been in the bathroom for over an hour!"

            Or maybe not.

            "Are you shooting up?"

            I remain silent.

            "Answer me, Roger!"

            I don't say a word. And surprisingly, neither does he. I hear his footsteps retreat as rapidly as they had approached and hear the front door creak open and then some other muffled voices in the other room. I strain to hear who the other person is but I can't make it out.

            Suddenly there's another knock on the door and I jump.

            "Roger, open up!"

            This voice belongs to Collins and sounds much more demanding than when Mark had spoken a few moments ago. But I still don't make a sound, and make no attempt to open the door.

            "C'mon Rog, you need to talk to someone…"  And then he says in a quieter voice, "I know you called me before."

            At this I open the door and let him in, closing it quickly behind him so that Mark doesn't sneak in. I don't want Mark to know that I called Collins because then I would have to explain _why_ I called. And I'm not even ready to admit that to myself yet.

            Collins sits down on the edge of the bathtub and folds his arms in his lap, looking as if has all the time in the world.

            "How did you know?" I ask quietly.

            "Know what?"

            "How did you know it was me who called?"

            "Caller ID." He pauses, waiting for me to respond and when I don't he continues. "Why did you hang up?"

            I look at him strangely. "Don't you mean why did I call?" He's the first person I've called in months, since I started shooting up…the first person I've tried to contact, first person I've willingly sought out all year. I would have expected his reaction to be a little different.

            He shakes his head. "No, I mean why did you hang up?"

            I sigh. "I didn't want to talk."

            "Then why did you call?"

            I pause, considering his logic. Why _did_ I call? I know the answer before my mind even has time to process the question. The better question is, do I want to tell him?

            I sigh. "When did you first think you had AIDS?"

            He looks a little taken aback by my question and gets a thoughtful look on his face. "I don't know, I guess when Jeff told me he had it. Why?"

            "Just wondering," I mumble, not even sure myself why I had asked the question. It isn't like I'm going to tell him about me…right?

            "Roger…" He lifts my chin so that I'm looking right into his eyes. "Do you have AIDS?"

            And then I start crying for no reason at all…or maybe it's because of everything. April, AIDS, drugs, suicide… Everything comes crashing down around me all at once and for one second I let my guard down.

            "April left a note…I didn't tell Mark…" is all I can get out before the sobs take over my body.

            Collins gets down next to me on the floor and holds me until I regain the strength to continue.

            "We got AIDS. That's all it said. We got AIDS."  There. It was said, out in the open. I should feel better…then why do I feel even worse?

            Collins is silent for a second and I glance up at him. "You have to get tested, Roger."

            I shake my head quickly. No, I don't want to get tested. It would make everything real. As long as I don't know for sure, as long as it's not final, I can pretend it's not real, that maybe none of this even happened at all.

            "You _need_ to get tested. You have to find out for sure." He pauses. "You know, you may not even have it…"

            I give him a look. Yeah right. How many times had I used April's needles? Been too wasted to remember protection? More times than I care to think about. Probably more times that I can even _remember_ considering I'd spent the past few months walking around in a drugged haze.

            "I'm not getting tested, Collins."

            "Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter," I answer softly and look away from him.

            "What does that mean?"

I pause. It means that it doesn't matter, I'm dying anyway and it doesn't matter if it's from AIDS, suicide, or drugs…I'm dying. And that's all that matters.

            He sighs. "Roger, having AIDS isn't a death sentence. It doesn't mean the same thing as it did a few years ago…there's new medicine, new treatment…"

"That I can't afford."

            "Because you spend all your money on drugs?" He gives me a pointed look.

            I scowl at him.

            "Listen, I'm not going to lecture you. I'm sure you've heard enough of those already. But you do need to get tested. And I know you want to, I know you want the help because if you didn't you wouldn't have called me. Will you come with me?"

            "Come with you where?" I ask hesitantly.

            "To the clinic."

            I pause and think it over. Do I really want to know the truth? Can I handle the truth? Even though the back part of my mind already knows that it's true, I don't think I can deal with having that truth confirmed.

            "The longer you wait the worse it's going to be."

            I think about this for a second. If I went with Collins I would get out of the loft, out of Mark's constant supervision…which means I could see The Man… which means…

            "Alright, I'll go."

He raises an eyebrow. "You'll get tested?"

"Yes! Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Yes, but…"

I don't wait for him to finish, I'm already out of the bathroom and practically out the front door before he even has the chance to put on his coat.

            "Roger, wait up!" he calls after me as he hurries to catch up. But I don't stop and I don't slow down. My mind is set on getting more smack and nothing or no one is going to stop me. I need to make this go away. I have to numb the pain.

            I try to justify to myself that I need to shoot up again so I don't end up slitting my wrists like April. As I race down the street, trying to lose Collins, I try to convince myself that that's the only reason I'm doing it again. I need to take away the pain or that pain will make me do something that I know I'll regret later on.

            I finally manage to lose Collins in the crowd of St. Mark's Place. I slow down myself and start looking for The Man, searching in every shadow and alley, desperate to find him before it starts again.

            I see a bunch of homeless people all crowded around a tall figure clad in a dark overcoat, shoving each other, pushing the others out of the way in their desperate attempts to obtain their poison. 

            It is only when I see a short, blonde man with track marks laced up and down both arms, shove some money into my dealers hand that I realize I have no cash. I spent all my drug money long ago and have since resorted to "borrowing" some of Mark's, or selling old appliances that never really worked anyway. But I already sold everything in the loft that's worth anything, besides my guitar and Mark's camera, and I've run out of ways to get the flow I need to keep me out of withdrawal.

            I suddenly see Collins walking rapidly down the streets, searching for me in the crowd, and I duck behind a tree so as not to be caught with my dealer.

            I consider for a second asking Collins for some money. But, no, he'd know what I want it for. He'd never give me the money.

            I sigh and then suddenly I hear someone come up behind me.

            "Roger, where the hell have you been?"

            I turn around and come face to face with a very angry Collins.

            "I, uh…" I try to think of an excuse but, for once, my mind is blank so I simply shift my position so that I'm standing right in front of Collins, hopefully blocking his view of The Man and all the junkies crowded around him.

            As soon as I do this he instantly glances over my shoulder in suspicion and when he sees the reason for my coming here he gives me a look. Okay, bad move.

            But instead of the anger and shouting I had been expecting he simply looks at me sadly and says, "You're still doing this shit, Roger?" His tone is soft, consoling, in contrast to the harsh words.

            When I don't say anything for several seconds he says, "Rog, you gotta stop this. You have to get tested, and you can't keep shooting up. It'll only make things worse."

            I shake my head. "No, you don't fucking understand…" I search for the words that would help him understand, to let him know why I have to do this, why there's no other way, but no words exist that can express how much pain I feel, and the loss and guilt that's been haunting me ever since I saw April's dead body in the bathtub that day.

            "Okay, you're right. I don't understand. I don't understand why you think shooting up will solve your problems or why you think running is the answer. I _do_ understand what it's like to find out you have AIDS, I understand how you think if you don't get tested you won't have to deal with it, you won't have to face the fact that you're dying. And I also understand that if you keep using and keep wasting your life away like this you'll just die faster. And that the rest of your time spent on this earth will be miserable."

            I look at him for a few seconds, just taking in everything he said. I know that Collins knows what it's like. I know that he's been there too so he does understand somewhat. But he has no right to tell me what or what not to do because he's never been a junkie, he's never had a girlfriend – or boyfriend – commit suicide, and he's never had to deal with going through withdrawal and all the other shit that goes along with a heroin addiction.

            But I can't help thinking back to earlier this evening when I had called him up, planning on telling him everything and asking for help. Why had I done that? Do I really want that help? I wouldn't have called him if I didn't…right?

            I sigh and shift my eyes back and forth from The Man, to Collins, and back again. I shot up a half hour ago, I should be okay for at least another hour. Slowly a plan forms in my mind and I finally let my eyes settle on Collins, saying very softly, "Okay, I'll get tested."


End file.
